In Praise of KJ

1) a sonnet in praise of KJ A screen's allure, a figure held in grace, She steps into a world of scripted light. With poise and passion shining on her face, She claims the scene and holds it with her might. Her presence fills the lens, a burning art, A confident and captivating soul, She gives a scene a pulse, a beating heart, And makes the chaos feel entirely whole. A master of the moment, pure and true, She finds the truth within the staged design, And in her work, reveals a vision new, A captivating form, a bold, clear line. Her talent shines, a star in its own space, And brings a fierce and elemental grace. 2) After the Style of Milton Lo, Muse, that with a solemn strain dost sing Of Adam's Fall, and man's first disobedience, In humble strain, attend my voice, and praise A different grace, by modern light revealed. For in this age, that lesser glories knows, A name resounds, not on the fields of war Nor from the halls where kings their scepters hold, But from the glimmer of a glassen screen, Where Kenna James, with visage passing fair, And form by Nature’s cunning hand well-wrought, Doth move. Not as a shepherdess, whose pleas Could sway a god to grant a fruitful spring, Nor as a Queen, with sceptre and with throne; But as a player, who doth lend her soul To fictions born of light, and fleeting shade. Her motion, like a goddess in her stride, Her glance, as Venus from the Cyprian shore, Can stir the senses, and with artful sway Command the sight, and hold the captive mind In momentary thrall. Thus, doth she stand, A living form, a beauty self-possessed, Who in a world of artifice, doth lend A breath of Truth, to visions made by man. 3) After the Style of the Inferno In media vita, in a world estranged, I found myself within a shadowed wood, Where digital streams and fleeting moments ranged. From error’s path, I sought a truth I would Not find in sacred tome or ancient lore, When from a mist, a silent figure stood. He, with a countenance I’d seen before In verse of Mantua, did bid me come, And tread a circle none had trod before. “Lo,” Virgil said, his voice a quiet drum, “We pass beyond the realm of wrath and greed, To where a new and living art has come.” We came to where a single, glowing reed Projected forms upon a screen of night, And watched a spirit plant a living seed. Here, in this circle of electric light, She sits, a figure on a gilded throne, A soul possessed of power and of might. Kenna, she is, whose form is not her own, But lent to visions, fleeting and intense, A spirit in a body made of bone, Who gives to scenes a fevered, urgent sense. The torment here is not in fire’s bite, But in the art of feigned impermanence. For she must play a part, both day and night, And feel the weight of every given word, And make a crafted passion burning bright. The souls who follow her are seen and heard, In endless loops of joy and deep despair, Like endless flocks of an unwary bird. Thus, did my guide reveal a realm laid bare, Not damned, but shaped by art’s peculiar claim, Where human passion hangs within the air. And so we passed, and left her with her flame, A queen of passion's kingdom, named by fame.

In Praise of Bob Dylan

1) A Haiku in Praise of Bob Old voice, new song found, Words like rain, now a new breeze, Still the times they change. 2) A Sonnet in Praise of Blood on the Tracks Your heart laid bare upon the vinyl's grooves, A fractured love, a landscape torn apart. The weary soul through winter's echo moves, And finds no solace for a broken heart. "Tangled Up in Blue" begins the tale, Of memories like smoke that drift and fade. A phantom scent on every biting gale, A promise whispered, now a lie betrayed. The mandolin's lament, a lonely cry, The weary tramp of feet on cobblestone. You sing of what it means to say goodbye, And sit within the silence, now alone. So perfect in its pain, its raw design, A masterpiece of sorrow, truly thine. 3) A Sestina in Praise of Blonde on Blonde In Memphis heat, the sessions came to be, A sound electric, filled with Nashville tones. The amp and organ swelled for all to see, As weary minstrels sang their cryptic groans. No single thing could ever make him cease, This double album, built on shifting stones. The harmonica in "Visions" gives no peace, A weary traveler, caught between two tones. A restless poet, setting souls at ease, With words like fire, or just the gentle groans. A restless fever, granting no release, Among the clutter of the shifting stones. He sings of witches, filled with odd unease, A lover's promise shattered by the tones. The organ groans a desperate plea for peace, While broken feelings turn to silent groans. The endless, swirling patterns never cease, Upon a path of unhewn, shifting stones. He speaks of tangled webs, and deep unease, Of broken promises, and weary tones. The midnight hours offer no release, He finds a truth in fractured, lonely groans. The weary heart in love's chaotic cease, Is caught between the shifting, weathered stones. A frantic rhythm, searching for some peace, A jangling guitar, filled with strange new tones. The siren's call, a promise of release, A broken vow that ends in hollow groans. The endless road where visions never cease, Is paved with polished, beautiful, worn stones. The double album grants a strange release, A monument of sound, with cryptic tones. The final song provides a moment's peace, A whispered truth beyond the anguished groans. A masterpiece that never seems to cease, This fragile house of lonely, shifting stones.